


Crystallise

by dhampir72



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Sports, Ice Skating, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Injury Recovery, M/M, Rehabilitation, figure skater!Q, sports journalist!bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-09-20 06:08:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9478862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhampir72/pseuds/dhampir72
Summary: Bond is a journalist who doesn't believe that figure skating is a real sport.Q is a figure skater who doesn't believe in giving interviews to journalists who don't believe that figure skating is a real sport.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to those who have helped me with this project:  
> My patient BETA [rawr-balrog](http://rawr-balrog.tumblr.com)  
> My amazing soundboard, MinMu.  
> The amazing mod for the 00Q Reverse Bang, [ChestnutNOLA](http://chestnutnola.tumblr.com).  
> Also shout out to [Beginte](http://beginte.tumblr.com), who is always cheerleading me on. 
> 
> Without you all, I never would have completed this!
> 
> And, of course, a major thank you to my talented artist, [megaikemen](http://megaikemen.tumblr.com/), who created such [inspiring work](http://megaikemen.tumblr.com/post/156110438060/mynameisq-my-art-for-00q-reverse-bang%22) for this story!
> 
> Title inspired by [Lindsey Stirling's Crystallize](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QAD0BtEv6-Q).

 

* * *

 

"You must be joking."

"What makes you say that?"

James Bond leaned back in the seat across from his boss. Gareth Mallory, the CEO and senior editor of one of England’s most popular magazines, _Sport_ , stared back at him, as if he hadn’t just handed Bond his career-ending assignment. And maybe he didn’t understand just how career-ending it was, what with Mallory just having taken the position not even half a year ago. His lack of experience made Bond wish for the good old days when he’d had Olivia Mansfield in charge. She’d been a righteous bitch and busted his balls, yes, but Bond had respected her much more than her nephew, this three-piece suit-wearing prat who didn’t know his own head from his arse.

“As if you don’t know.”

“Enlighten me,” Mallory said.

Bond nodded at the wall behind Mallory, where the testaments to their superiority in sports journalism hung in frame after frame. Bond’s rise to fame had begun during the Summer Olympics in London, when their magazine had gained international recognition for Bond’s in-depth coverage of the 2012 squad. Their sale numbers continued to grow over the next few years, skyrocketing after the 2015 World Cup, when Bond’s investigations into corruption had brought the company two international awards for stellar journalism. He wasn’t about to throw his promising career away, not when he’d finally climbed to the top of the ladder and gained such acclaim.

“Yes, you’re very good, Bond, which is why I’m giving you this assignment. I don’t trust anyone else to fill Severine’s shoes.”

Bond ran a hand through his prematurely greying hair, inwardly cursing Severine for leaving without much more than ten days’ notice. Although he was sure that the opportunity in Shanghai had been worth it, she could have at least found a replacement instead of leaving them high and dry for a senior columnist. And she had tackled all the niche sports, too, the ones that no one wanted to touch with a ten foot pole for how difficult it was to get access to the athletes and their coaches, not to mention understanding all the damn rules of sports like dressage and luge.

“With all due respect, _sir_ ,” Bond said, unable to keep his voice from sounding scathing, “I’ve been working the desk for almost ten years now and I’ve always covered football. Now you’re asking me to drop all of my work, my connections, everything, so that I can cover... the _figure skating season_?”

“Yes,” Mallory said, as if he saw nothing wrong with the situation. “And?”

It made Bond once again yearn for Mansfield, because she had never been one for roundabout conversation. It was always straight to the point with her: bad news out of the way quickly and cleanly instead of dragging out the suffering. On top of that, she always kept a decanter of something good in the high-rise office for the hard times. And for the times in between, of course. Bond remembered many a fond night sitting in this exact office, sipping brandy or scotch or some other concoction with Mansfield, talking shite, laughing at pending lawsuits, the works. But the office was bone dry, now. Mallory was one of those health freaks that didn’t drink or smoke, who liked those pricey pressed juices instead of real food. He'd gotten rid of the bar on his first day.

“If you have something to say, Bond, say it.”

Bond set his jaw.

“It’s _figure skating_.”

“It’s a challenge, Bond. Something to keep you from getting stale after ten years on the same desk.”

“ _Stale_?” Bond repeated, gesturing at the wall behind Mallory. “I’ve been winning awards for this company for years now. Long before you took over, I might add"

“Yes, you have,” Mallory agreed, “but you haven't been at your best, have you?”

“What is that supposed to mean?"

Mallory sat back in his seat and steepled his fingers.

“There's no way to put this delicately, but you have a drinking problem, Bond.”

Bond could have punched him right in the face.

“Christ, what is this, an intervention?”

“My aunt told me to keep an eye on you--”

“Oh, so she quits and puts you in charge, but you’re just her puppet, doing her bidding? Tell her if she wants to run this damned company, she can get her arse back in that chair,” Bond growled.

“I’m the one making the decisions here. After Severine gave her notice, it made me reconsider assignments here in the office. I thought a change of...scenery might be a good thing for you.”

Bond got up and began pacing the room. The far wall was made of glass, and he saw Mallory’s secretary look concerned as he began moving about.

“Keeping me out of the pubs, you mean?”

“Look, I’m not saying you’re not good at your job, Bond, but it is called functioning alcoholism for a reason.”

“So you’re going to drive me to drink more by giving me this assignment? Smart move.”

Mallory’s expression turned steely.

“It’s either take this assignment and get your drinking under control on your own or you’ll be back as a subeditor and sent to AA.”

Bond stopped in his tracks. He couldn’t believe that this was happening.

“I dedicate ten years of my life to this company and this is how I’m repaid? I ought to quit,” Bond threatened.

“Do you think anyone else will put up with you?” Mallory asked. “You’re a great journalist, Bond, but you’ve got bad habits that would have gotten you fired anywhere else. And the number of lawsuits from your features alone--”

“So I’m not supposed to report the truth?”

“You’re supposed to not get this company sued every issue.”

“If we’re not getting sued, we’re not doing our best.”

That had been the motto, long ago, back in the day when he and Mansfield and Severine had all been just starting out. But now, where had that old guard gone? Mansfield, retired on a beach somewhere, Severine out to investigate corruption in her home country. And Bond? Where was Bond in all of this? Just some grand old warship being hauled away for scrap: becoming obsolete in this brave new world Mallory was hellbent on creating?

“Listen, I’m giving you this opportunity Bond. Turn your life around. Get back on track. Let the new boy handle the footballers.”

Bond bristled, thinking of the shiny, fresh-faced lad that just graduated uni and thought his fancy degree made him a real journalist.

“Ronson? He’s barely out of nappies.”

“And yet you’re the one who’s whingeing.”

“And for bloody good reason. I spent years building relationships with this lot. Christ, I’ve got interviews lined up for the next six months!”

“And I’m sure Ronson will be elated to be introduced to your contacts.”

Bond tried another tactic, going so far as to sit down and look a bit pleading:

“I don’t know anything about figure skating.”

“Then I suggest you learn, Bond. And I want some proof of work on my desk after the British Figure Skating Championship, understood?”

Bond didn’t trust his mouth, so he settled on nodding instead, and was not long after excused from Mallory’s office.

“How did it go?” Ronson asked, when Bond returned to their shared office cubicle.

It was a small space that Bond had come to call home, a little corner of the fifteenth floor that happened to have a window looking out over all of the South End. He sat down in his chair, looking past the awards, the signed football memorabilia, his mountain of research waiting to be put to good use, and stared out the window.

“That...bad…?” Ronson ventured.

“Yeah. That bad,” Bond said, turning his chair round to face him.

It was then that he noticed there were two cups of steaming tea laid out in preparation. It was a very British thing to do in times of strife and adversity, even though Bond hated the stuff and had told Ronson at every opportunity. Still, the gesture was nice enough, so Bond accepted the cup near his keyboard in order to not look like a complete arsehole.

"Did you...you didn’t quit, did you?”

“No,” Bond answered, and raised his cup a bit to Ronson, “but you might be getting some good news today.”

“Oh…?”

“You’re going to be taking over covering this football season.”

“But I thought you said you didn’t quit?”

“Long story. Just be happy, kid,” Bond said gruffly, putting his untouched tea on the desk.

He stood up and grabbed his coat, then began packing up his laptop.

“I’m cutting out early today,” Bond said, and then, because Ronson looked terrified of the possibility of being happy, he added: “it’s fine, Ronson. We’ll celebrate another day. I’ll buy you a round.”

“Thanks, but…are you going to be okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Bond didn’t say anything else, again, not trusting himself. Ronson was too nice to be cruel to, even if he wanted, and Bond worried he might say something that would leave lasting damage. So he hurried to the lifts, out of the building, and began making his way to his favourite pub in order to drown that angry thing inside him that wanted out.

He drank and drank, had a smoke out in the alley out back once or twice with a few of the bussers, then went back to drinking. Bond lasted longer than the happy hour crowd, and by that point, he was feeling anything but, so he decided to go home.

Home wasn’t really a home in a traditional sense. Home was really just a place he went to sleep and shower and have sex. And it showed, even to Bond, because every time he came in through the front door, it was like walking in on someone else’s life: a sterile, clean life of white and chrome and absent personality. Still, it served its purpose. It kept him warm and dry and housed his liquor cabinet, which he dug into without bothering to think of the consequences.

The last time he’d had this much to drink had been almost five years ago, when he’d been lonely and hurting after his fiance, Vesper Lynd, had left him.

Bond leant back against the arm of the couch, cradling the bottle of whiskey in the crook of his elbow as he stared at the ceiling and thought about Mallory’s warning. If Bond cocked this up, there was no telling how Mallory might punish him next. And then what? What had it all been for if not for the life he’d always wanted?

A surge of anger came over him, towards Mallory, towards Ronson, towards everyone, but Bond drowned it with drink and then with cigarettes and then with sleeping pills.

His life was fine.

Just fine.

**00Q00Q00Q**

When Bond arrived in Sheffield the following week, he found that the venue was more crowded than he originally anticipated.

After doing research the night before, Bond knew that the British Figure Skating Championship was one of the largest in the country, but he didn’t think that there would be so many people coming to spectate. And yet, there were hundreds of thousands of people packing into the space, both young and old, male and female. Excitement buzzed in the air, but it felt different than the explosive energy at football stadiums. At football games, there was something primal, almost savage, about the celebration: the shouting, the chest-pounding, the chanting. Here, he felt something much different: something serene in the quiet hum of voices, just brimming below the surface. Bond wished he had a name for it, but couldn’t quite equate it to anything he’d ever experienced before.

He checked his watch, then his programme guide, and saw that he had enough time to get a coffee before the performances started. There were a few options on site, and queue went quickly enough, but there weren’t nearly enough stations of cream and sugar for everyone to tend to their drinks without crowding.

Bond was just thinking of taking his black to avoid the crowd when someone in a navy track jacket bumped into his elbow and nearly upended Bond’s coffee.

“Oh, excuse me,” said the person. “I am so sorry!”

Bond thought about getting upset for a moment, maybe tell the person that they ought to have been watching where they were going, but the angry words died on his tongue when a pair of very green, very apologetic eyes met his. Before him stood a young, dark-haired man who couldn’t have been a day over twenty, carrying a tray of four coffees and looking for all the world like he’d just committed an atrocity.

“I didn’t spill on you, did I?” he asked, touching Bond’s arm lightly. His fingers were long and white and very lovely, and any anger Bond had depleted immediately.

“I am unscathed,” Bond answered, and the man smiled and then let out a laugh that was absolutely delightful.

“I’m glad. I usually don’t run around without my glasses but, well, of course today...” he said, looking sheepish, before nodding at the space next to Bond. “Mind if I squeeze through there?”

He held up the crate with its four cradled drinks.

“No, go right ahead,” Bond said, making a small path for him.

“Thanks,” he answered, and wedged himself in between two other people before he began helping himself to sugar and cream.

Someone pushed past Bond, forcing him closer to the lovely stranger. He was almost of height with Bond, but seemed small in a way that had everything to do with his delicate bone structure: sharp cheeks, angular jaw, long throat, and those fingers...He was one of those people that singers wrote songs about and artists painted pictures of because everything about him seemed to draw the eye and hold its attention. Even Bond, for all his years of sleeping with beautiful men and women, could not recall having been so enamoured so quickly, and somehow it depleted his usual confidence and wit, as well as his attempts at conversation.

“It’s really packed today,” Bond commented, feeling suddenly warm under the collar.

“It is. I swear, it gets bigger every year,” he said cheerfully.

“Lots of media coverage too,” said Bond, holding up his press badge. Usually the sight of the laminated identification had men and women more interested in him right away, but this boy seemed not to care about it at all. Maybe he couldn’t see without his glasses...? So Bond added: “I write for _Sport_. The name’s Bond. James Bond.”

“Oh, so you must be very excited to cover it... Mr. Bond, James Bond?” he asked, his smile teasing, perhaps even flirting.

“Well…” Bond took a sip of his coffee, so he could keep from staring at the man’s perfect cheekbones, “let’s just say this isn’t my usual.”

“Ah,” he said, as he fit the lids back onto his cups. “Short straw?’

“Something like that.”

The boy laughed again, and it went all the way from his mouth to his eyes, making him all the more beautiful.

“So I take it that figure skating is not exactly a sport you’re familiar with, then?”

“Not much of a sport at all, is it?” Bond answered.

A delicate brow disappeared into dark, wavy fringe.

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

Bond shrugged.

“Just a lot of twirling about, isn’t it?”

The boy looked at him, but gone was his friendly smile from before.

“I would recommend not repeating that, especially around here,” he said, and it sounded as if he were struggling to be civil. “People dedicate their lives to this, just as other athletes do, and they train just as hard as footballers and swimmers and all the rest. Reducing figure skating to _just a lot of twirling about_ is not only misguided, but also insulting, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for calling yourself a professional journalist. Good day.”

And with that, the boy and his coffees were gone, leaving Bond standing there, stock still, feeling as if he’d just been slapped. At first, he felt offended, but then, looking round at the crowds, felt a burn of shame. The boy had been right, of course. Just because he felt cheated out of his job, felt like the entire assignment was just cruel punishment, that didn’t make it acceptable to say what he’d said.

Bond took up his coffee and went in the direction the boy had gone, but no matter how hard he searched, he couldn’t find those dark curls anywhere in the crowd.

Eventually, he gave up and went outside to have a cigarette. One turned to two, and then three, before he decided he ought to get inside and do his job. It was the least he could do after everything.

It took him some time to find the press booth, which was situated close to the judges but behind the television cameras recording the event. He found a spot near an attractive woman with brown hair and took a seat. She gave him an appreciative glance up and down, which prompted Bond to do the same before holding out his hand to her.

“James Bond, _Sport_.”

“Camille Montes, _The Observer_.”

“What did I miss?”

“Well, all of yesterday, for one,” she said teasingly, and Bond mentally cursed for having been too hungover to catch the last train the previous day. “Today are all of the free skate programmes.”

“Can’t wait…” Bond said, trying for enthusiasm.

The acts were impressive, Bond had to admit, but he didn’t see what all the excitement was about. More interesting things happened in football. Still, he did his due diligence and got their names, their scores, and made sure to write appreciative comments in the margins of his notepad for later reference.

“The next skater is the one I’m excited for. I saw him skate two or three years ago. Absolutely fantastic. But he dropped out right before the 2014 Olympics and never made it to Sochi. Some kind of accident, I think.”

“Oh?” Bond asked, clicking his pen at the ready. Camille knew this game better than he did, and if she could give him some insight into the world of figure skating, Bond was going to take it.

“Yup. It’s his first public appearance back in the rink,” Camille shook her head. “Poor kid, though. He might be skating again, but probably not at the level he was. They never do after an injury, you know. And here I had him pegged to be the next Yuzuru Hanyu...”

Bond had absolutely no idea who that was, and said so.

“Yuzuru Hanyu? As in the guy who’s broken ten world records in figure skating? Youngest person since 1948 to take a gold medal in the Olympics? First to land a quad loop in competition? Ringing any bells?”

“Not a one.”

Camille made a face.

“And you call yourself a sports journalist.”

“In my defense, I cover football primarily.”

“Heathen,” Camille said, but it was teasing.

A skater came out on the ice and Camille nodded at him.

“There he is. Cute as a button. The girls love him. The boys, too, I’m sure.”

“Who is he?”

“His name is Quentin Stirling, but he goes by ‘Q’. Just turned twenty-three last month.”

“Well that makes me feel old.”

Camille laughed.

“Tell me about it.”

The boy on the ice looked up at the crowd, and that’s when Bond recognised him.

It was the same boy from the cafe who’d gotten stroppy with him.

“Oh shit.”

“What?” Camille asked.

“I sort of. Ran into him earlier,” Bond explained. “I had no idea who he was.”

“Did you say something embarrassing?” Camille asked, waggling her eyebrows.

“Well,” Bond said, “I insulted him. Unknowingly, of course. Said that figure skating wasn’t really a sport. And then he basically told me to piss off.”

Camille laughed.

“Good for him,” she said, and then gave Bond an unapologetic look. “Sorry, Bond, but, word of advice? Never piss off a figure skater. You are aware they wear blades on their feet for fun, yes?”

Before Bond could answer, the announcer came over the loudspeaker and began introducing Q, making mention that he was back on the ice after a long hiatus. Q received a heartfelt cheer from the crowd as he moved across the ice towards the centre of the rink, going so far as to smile and even wave once at audience members.

But once the announcer stopped, Q’s expression turned into one of focus as he took a graceful standing pose on the ice.

If Bond thought he was beautiful before, seeing him on the ice was something else entirely. Q wore a form fitting outfit of royal blue and cerulean. Studded with jewels, both on his clothes and his cheeks, he glittered under the lights.

[The moment the music began](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jnDv873q5zs), Bond found himself holding his breath.

There was something ethereal about him, the way he skated as if it were as easy to him as breathing, as if it were more natural to him to be on ice than on land. He was soft with it, moving like water, like waves, but then he’d extend himself and the curves of him would become lines, drawing the eye in and along them. Bond couldn’t blink, in fear of missing that moment when his motions moved between the two states of being, as if he were two spirits inside of one body manifesting themselves to match music and breath and light.

And then it was over as quickly as it begun, to a cheering crowd and judges’ praise.

“Not his best performance, but a good technical score,” Camille said, jotting something down in her notebook.

“What do you mean?” Bond asked. “He was...very good.”

“Well, yes, but you could tell he some of his landings were off and he seemed a little fatigued at the end on that triple,” Camille explained, “but at least his footwork throughout was on point.”

“Do you think it’s due to the injury?” Bond asked.

“It’s possible. Or he needs more strength conditioning. Either way, he’ll need to work much harder over the next few months if he expects to compete at Worlds level again.”

Bond nodded as she spoke, taking notes in shorthand for himself. If there was one thing that he’d learned being a journalist, it was that people were always interested in the underdog, the human interest story, and Q sounded like just the right topic for a feature.

Many more skaters took the ice and performed, but none of them seemed at the same level of grace and beauty that Q had displayed. There were a few, of course, but none that Bond found as impressive. It was only after all the skaters had finished and the crowds were getting up to leave that Bond leaned close to Camille and asked:

“So how do you go about getting exclusives with them?”

“And by _exclusives_ you mean…?” she asked, raising her eyebrows with a grin.

“An interview, of course,” Bond answered.

“Of course,” Camille said sarcastically. “I saw the way you looked at Quentin Sterling.”

“He is very good.”

“Very good indeed.”

Bond gave her a grin.

“You’re very good yourself,” Bond said, giving her an appreciative up-down, just so she knew he played both sides of the fence without discrimination. As long as his partner was pretty and willing, Bond was not about to argue over something as arbitrary as gender.

“I’m also very taken,” she said.

“Pity,” Bond replied.

She laughed.

“I like you, Bond.”

“Enough to help me get an exclusive with the man of my dreams?” he teased.

“Oh, as much as I’d love to see how it pans out, I’m not about to give away all my secrets to the competition.”

“Not all the secrets, just a few,” Bond said, and tried for charming, “I’ll even buy you a drink.”

“As much as I love drinks, I like favours more.”

“What sort of favour were you thinking?”

“Think you could get me in to see your boss?”

“Are you looking for a job?” Bond asked.

He refrained on commenting on _The Observer_ , knowing it was just a Sunday run. Of course she’d be looking for something with more coverage and more opportunity. Perhaps Mallory would be interested in hiring her to replace Severine...

“Maybe,” she said, and winked. She then procured a card from her pocket and scribbled something on the back. “So, do we have a deal? My contact for yours?”

Bond thought it a fair exchange. He took her purple pen and wrote Mallory’s direct phone number on the back of his own business card before exchanging it for hers.

“See you around,” Camille said, shaking his hand.

“Maybe sooner than you think,” Bond answered.

He watched her walk away, unashamedly staring at her assets. Only when she was out of sight did Bond look at the card in his hand. In loopy, purple script, was a mobile number and the name:

_Bill Tanner_


	2. Chapter 2

**00Q00Q00Q**

_2 April 2012_

_The 2012 World Figure Skating Championships ended yesterday in Nice, France. Great Britain took silver and bronze medals in both mens’ and ladies’ singles, as well as bronze in ice dancing, making this a memorable year....In mens’ singles, Great Britain took bronze through one of the youngest competitors in the competition this year, Quentin Sterling. Just emerging at professional skating level two years ago, Sterling has already taken the figure skating world by storm, and at nineteen he is the youngest competitor to ever earn a medal in this Championship._

_30 October 2012  
Quentin Sterling once again impressing audiences, this time abroad, earning a high technical score in the short programme at Skate Canada. The youthful energy of this skater has everyone talking Olympic potential for the 2014 winter games_

_11 November 2012  
NHK medalists include Quentin Sterling…_

Bond rubbed at his eyes as he skimmed through newspaper articles and blog posts relating to Quentin Sterling. There was never much more than a blurb about him: mention of his age, his technical scores, but not much else. It seemed no one had ever done a profile piece on him. The closest Bond found was a video recording from a local news station in 2013.

_...we’re here at the British Championships in Sheffield, where we’ve just discovered that Olympic prospect, Quentin Sterling, has just been taken by ambulance to a nearby hospital. Details are vague at this time, though we do have reports that say he collapsed in the locker room after the short programme and medical assistance was requested at that time…_

Beneath the video were comments added not long after the aired report:

 **brrrzrrr:** so sad that this happened because i love him so much hope he gets better soon

 **ppvgta:** poor Quentin! I met him once at exhibition in France and he was really nice. I wonder what happened???

 **jjfox:** it was probably drugs

 **baebaebae1209:** nooooooo not quentin he is my fave ???

 **SkatingMaster1234:** I was at this competition! You should have seen him skate, wow! But it looked like he wanted to cry through it. Maybe he got hurt?

 **IceIceBby88:** watched the performance video, he didn’t fall?

 **SkatingMaster1234:** doesn’t mean anything he still could have gotten hurt

 **jjfox:** or drugs

 **BlazeIt42069:** Check out my video here, all girls all legal https://…

 **IceJournalist23:** Wrote a piece for this on my blog! Inside source at the hospital, my boyfriend, said he found out what happened. You can read it here: http://…

Bond knew it was ill-advised, but he clicked the link anyway. It brought him to a nice blog that focused entirely on figure skating. There were even tag clouds, links to galleries, and all sorts of other articles from the best skates to the worst music choices in 2015. But Bond was more interested in the blog post, which read:

_13 December 2013_

_Okay, so I know I shouldn’t be posting about this but I know that the media’s been so quiet about it. So my boyfriend (who shall remain nameless for obvs reasons) was one of the attendings at the hospital where they brought Quentin Sterling. Said it was definitely an injury of some kind, but he’s not allowed to disclose it to anyone. And it’s not that doctor-patient stuff. This is serious hush-hush press stuff. Like, some spokesperson told them that they’re not allowed to talk to anyone about it?? I mean, I get it. Privacy and everything. But come on! Is he gonna be okay? Is he gonna skate again??? What about the Olympics?? I’m DYING okay?? Here’s a picture of his face to make everyone feel better. Look how cute he is?? siiiigh._

_Anyway, he stayed there for a few days before being transferred to another hospital. My bf said that he is the sweeeeeetest person alive, even though he was in a lot of pain. So I sent flowers because I didn’t know if anyone else would and my bf made sure he got them and he was so grateful he signed this for me! [friend-locked pic] AhhhhH! I love him even more somehow???_

There were no other details, despite Bond’s best sleuthing, which made him put at the top of his interview question list:

_What was the nature of the incident that caused you to take a two year leave from figure skating?_

There were videos, too, but none of the incident in question. Still, Bond saved them and made into playlists on YouTube for easy viewing. They went back to Q’s first performances on the ice, where his enthusiasm outshone his inexperience. And the more Bond watched, the more he saw Q growing as an athlete: developing strength and confidence and technique with each passing performance.

By midday, his head started to hurt and he thought he could really use a drink, but then Bond caught Q’s smile out of the corner of his eye, and changed his mind.

Mallory had been serious about everything, so there was only one thing to do: get to work. Bond minimised the windows and went back to his research, only this time, it was on Bill Tanner.

The man was a sort of PR spokesperson for various skaters: arranging photoshoots, autograph sessions, and interviews for those under contract with him. So Bond called around to friends and friends of friends, trying to find out if anyone knew him and if they did, what Tanner liked and where he went, all in search of an introduction or a warm meeting rather than resorting to a cold call.

But he happened to be in luck when he happened across Camille leaving Mallory’s office.

“How did it go?” he asked, falling into step with her.

“Rather well. You might have to take me out for that drink,” Camille said.

“When do you start?”

“Next week.”

“Congratulations. Taking on figure skating?”

“No, I heard that it was in capable hands.”

Bond gave a long-suffering sigh, and Camille laughed, hooking her arm through his as they walked toward the lifts.

“Have you called Bill?”

“Not yet. I was wondering...would it be possible to introduce us?” Bond asked.

“Of course,” she said, pulling out her mobile. She was a no-nonsense sort of girl, and Bond liked that very much about her. Even her phone call was to the point, resulting in an arranged meeting for that day at two.

“I can’t go with you, unfortunately. I’ve got an interview at two-thirty.”

“Already?” Bond asked.

“I’m very good,” she said.

Bond smirked.

“I’ll bet you are.”

“Taken, remember?” she teased, pressing the button for the lift. “But anyway, Bill said he’ll see you. Don’t cock it up, either. You’re on my recommendation.”

“I owe you two drinks.” Bond told her.

Camille laughed as she flicked her hair over her shoulder and stepped into the lift.

“That’s great. I’ll be sure to have my girlfriend come along to help me.”

She blew him a kiss before the doors closed.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bill Tanner had an office near Piccadilly, and Bond knew the crowds would be horrible at their meeting time, so he took the tube instead of catching a cab. Stepping off at Green Park, he followed his GPS to a side street that led to an unobtrusive door on the side of an unobtrusive three storey building. Tanner’s office was at the top floor, and there was no lift, so Bond was a bit out of breath by the time he made it to the top of the stairs.

There, he met with Tanner’s pretty secretary, and he might have even gotten her number if the man himself hadn’t appeared. Tanner was ordinary looking bloke with a warm expression but a handshake that told Bond he never took bullshit. Tanner waved him into his office, closing the door behind him. It was a decent space, enough for a desk and some chairs, a filing cabinet or two, and, if Bond wasn’t mistaken, a conservative piece of furniture under the only window that may or may not have been a hidden bar. Bond felt his hand shake a bit, but he gripped his notepad in his pocket to stop the tremour.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Bond?” Tanner took the seat behind the desk, waving Bond into the other.

Bond sank into it. They were nice chairs, at least 300 quid, telling Bond that despite the lackluster building, Tanner made quite a bit at his business. Maybe Bond was in the wrong industry.

“Well, I was interested in writing a profile on one of the skaters you represent.”

“Ah, let me guess. Quentin Sterling?”

Tanner’s smile was one of practiced patience, and it made Bond wonder just how many other journalists he’d fielded away in the past few days.

“Yes. I know that this was his first time back in the public eye after his injury.”

“That’s true. So you can imagine this is a very stressful time for him.”

Tanner hadn’t correct him when he’d said _injury_ , so Bond made a quick note in his journal. He’d confirmed Bond’s suspicions, but it just made him all the more curious. Why refer to it as an _incident_ and not an _injury_? What had happened to keep the truth so hush-hush?

“I’m aware, and I wouldn’t be a nuisance,” Bond promised.

“And what sort of article, exactly, are you wanting to publish?”

“Well, it’s quite an inspiring story, isn’t it? Proof that people are capable of extraordinary things?”

Tanner was quiet for a moment.

“You are right, of course. They said he’d never skate again, but he never gave up,” Tanner said, and then nodded at Bond.

“Montes vouched for you so I’ll allow the interview, so long as I see the manuscript before it’s published. That means before and after editor review.” 

"Of course,” Bond said, and they shook hands before Tanner opened his day planner.

“Now, just because I’ve given my blessing, doesn’t mean anything. You’ll have to meet with his coach first. Her name is Madeleine Swann. She’ll most likely be accompanied by Dr. Trevelyan, the rink’s physical therapist. They’ve been the ones primarily answering the interview questions over the past few years.”

“Wait, Trevelyan? As in Alec Trevelyan?”

Tanner’s eyebrow went up.

“You know Alec?”

“It’s possible. I went to Eton with an Alec Trevelyan years ago, but we fell out of touch after graduation.”

“About your height, blond, has a love of vodka strong enough to peel paint off the walls?”

“That’s the one.”

“The one and only,” Tanner said, laughing. “Pretty sure it’s the same fellow, unless there are other Alec Trevelyans running about.”

Bond shook his head, still in a bit of disbelief.

“Small world,” he said. Tanner nodded.

“I’ll reach out to Madeleine and Alec today and they’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you,” Bond said, standing to shake Tanner’s hand.

“You’re very welcome,” Tanner answered, and Bond was almost at the door when Tanner added: “Oh, and Mr. Bond?”

“James is fine.”

“James,” Tanner said, his expression serious. “Do me a favour would you? Be kind to Quentin. He’s had a... difficult time.”

Bond nodded, resting his hand on the doorknob. But just before leaving, he reconsidered, and lingered in the doorway.

“Mr. Tanner.”

“Call me Bill.”

“Bill,” Bond amended, “could I ask...what happened, exactly? The papers never did say… was it an accident in the rink?”

Tanner’s mouth formed a thin line.

“It’s not my place to reveal that,” he answered, “and I would recommend that, if you get the opportunity to interview Quentin, you don’t ask.”

Feeling chastised, Bond shut his mouth, nodded, and politely made his exit.

**00Q00Q00Q**

Bond received word from Alec the following day, asking him to meet at a pub for drinks and dinner.

It was a popular place that he knew well, less than a five minute walk from the office, and Bond arrived early. But sitting there waiting at the bar was a face he hadn’t seen since he was nineteen. Alec Trevelyan was still big, still blond, and still had the same smile that always hinted at a bit of mischief. The moment Alec saw him, he stood up from the bar and made his way toward Bond.

“James! It’s been forever!”

They went to shake hands, but then Alec pulled him into a one-armed hug. It suddenly felt as if all the years between them had been nothing at all.

“It’s been too long,” Bond agreed.

“Let me buy you a round,” Alec said, returning to his seat at the bar.

They sat at the end, tucked up against the wall, giving them some privacy from the rest of the bar and its tables slowly filled with people, but not out of sight of the bartender. Said bartender came over and looked at them expectantly, but Bond glanced at Alec first.

“So are we waiting for…?"

“No, Madeleine’s not coming. We can go ahead and order.”

They did, and within moments they had two chilled pints of lager in front of them.

“So I take it I didn’t make the cut?” Bond asked, tapping his pocket notebook on the table.

“No no no, nothing like that. See, every now and then, we get a few tabloid journalists coming out, trying to make a mess in things as usual, so it’s Bill’s policy to _say_ that Madeleine’s coming with, but it’s usually me flying solo.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, they started sending me instead of Madeleine because I’ve got a meaner face and can scare ‘em off. That being said, Madeleine could probably rip your bollocks off and feed ‘em to you and you’d thank her for it.”

“Sounds like my kind of woman,” Bond said.

Alec shook his head.

“You say that now. Wait until you meet the broad. She even scares me sometimes. Even more than Headmaster Lewis’ secretary ever did, and she was a mean one. Always after us with that damned paddle!”

That had them both laughing.

“So what happened? Thought you went and joined the Navy after graduating?” Bond asked.

“Did for a stint, then did uni St. George’s in Sports Therapy,” Alec said.

“So you really are a doctor?” Bond asked, incredulous.

This couldn’t be the same Alec Trevelyan that he’d gotten into all sorts of trouble with at school, the one who’d slept through every science and biology class they’d been forced to take. Bond even said so, and Alec laughed.

“Well, we had to grow up sometime, right?”

“Wow. That’s just, incredible,” Bond said, tipping his glass against Alec’s. “Good job, mate. Or should I say, Dr. Trevelyan?”

“Ugh, please don’t. It makes me feel old as dirt.”

“But you are old as dirt,” Bond said.

“As are you,” Alec said.

They clinked their beers together and then drank again.

“So what about you? A journalist? I mean, no offence or anything, but I always pegged you for becoming a pro footballer.”

“Well, that was the plan, but I got hurt at uni."

“Knee?”

Alec looked sympathetic.

“Shoulder.”

“What a bloody waste of talent. I’m sorry.”

Bond shrugged.

“Sports journalism keeps me close to the sport. Well, it did, anyway.”

“Yeah, what’s up with figure skating? Doesn’t seem like your bag.”

“It isn’t at all, but we’re short a reporter, so the boss had me fill the gap.”

“Isn’t that what interns are for?”

“That’s what I said!”

They ordered another round.

“So how’d you get into figure skating anyway? Doesn’t seem like your bag either.”

“Well, kind of a crazy thing. Met this bird who came in for therapy while I was doing my residency, and she turned me onto a job working at the rink. And let me tell you, I’m never out of work. These skaters tear more ACLs than all of the footballers in the UK combined.”

“How many do you have?”

“Oh, dozens. Bill said you were at the British Figure Skating Championship, so you probably saw almost all of them. We have four going for Worlds this year, too.”

“What’s…Worlds?”

“Ah, sorry. It’s short for World Figure Skating Championships.” Alec explained, even going so far as to draw out skating championships and their levels on a napkin to help Bond understand.

“This is way more complicated than I thought,” Bond admitted.

“That’s what I said too, but it comes with time,” Alec said.

They chatted for a little while more, catching up on things that they’d missed, but it was only after their fourth round that they started talking business again.

“So Bill tells me that you want to write an article about Quentin Sterling. Says you thought it would be an inspiring story?”

“I think so. I mean, think about it. He be the odds, didn’t he? He’s out there skating again when they said he never would.”

Alec nodded, tracing his finger round the rim of his glass.

“Yeah, they did. Took a lot of therapy to get him rink ready again. And determination, of course.”

“Exactly. Don’t you think more people should know his story?”

Something in Alec’s jaw tensed momentarily, but before Bond could analyse it, Alec had started speaking:

“I do...but I’m not sure that Quentin is ready to tell that story just yet.”

“Why not?”

“It’s...it’s very personal for him. And he’s trying so hard to focus on upcoming competitions,” Alec answered. "Honestly, I’d recommend giving up on this article.”

Bond felt his shoulders slump.

“Really?” he asked.

Alec frowned.

“Sorry, mate.”

Then, Alec got a glint in his eye that Bond knew could mean one of two things: a brilliant idea or a very bad one.

“What?”

“I think I have an idea for your article.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” Alec said, “how would you like to interview Eve Moneypenny?”

“And...who is that exactly?” Bond asked, reaching for the pen in his pocket.

“Eve skates at the same rink as Q, and they even have the same coach.”

“Madeleine Swan?”

“Bingo,” Alec said, taking a sip of his beer. “Write a good article about her and--no promises here, of course--but you might just get your interview with Q.”

Bond let the words sink in, and thought it was definitely a brilliant idea. Probably, anyway. Much better than some of the ideas they’d had in school for certain.

“Do you think it’ll work?” Bond asked.

“Fuck if I know, but you’ll at least get one article out of it,” Alec answered, “and one is better than none, right?”

“Well how do I know that this...Eve will even agree to speak to me?” Bond asked.

“Oh, I’m sure she will,” Alec said, pulling out his mobile.

“What, you going to call her right now?”

“I can if you want. Otherwise, I was just going to text.”

He began texting, and as Bond watched him, he came to a realisation.

“She’s the bird,” Bond said.

“What?”

“The bird who got you the job at the rink.”

“Yeah, she is.”

“And she’s your bird,” Bond said.

“Whaaat? No,” Alec answered, too quickly for it to be the truth.

“Isn’t there some rule...doctors and patients, blah blah blah?” Bond needled.

“I won’t tell if you won’t."

“Your secret’s safe with me."

“Good, because Eve agreed to do the interview with you,” Alec said. “We’ll run it by Madeleine and I’ll send you the details when I have them.”

They shared another drink and more than a few stories before going their separate ways, Bond back to his empty flat and Alec to wherever it was he was heading, perhaps to Eve Moneypenny’s bedroom for the evening.

Bond put himself to bed early that night, pulling his laptop onto the pillow next to him so he could continue through the queue of videos he had of Q. He watched Q skate in different competitions throughout the world, all sorts of beauty and grace, but as the performances neared the time of his accident, Bond noticed how different Q began to look. Maybe no one had noticed, because no one had watched the videos one after another, but Bond saw it right away: Q’s enthusiasm had left him, taking with it his passion and glow. His skating was flawless at the technical level, earning him high scores, but he looked pale and drawn. There was something in his expression that seemed strained, something that didn’t sit right with Bond as he laid in bed and stared at the ceiling.

 _What happened to you?_ he wondered.

Perhaps soon he would find out.


	3. Chapter 3

While Bond waited to hear back from Alec, his life continued on as it had been: drinking too much, sleeping too little, and spending too much time staring at his laptop in an effort to write a few hundred words about the British Figure Skating Championships.

But while he worked (or pretended to) and when he closed his eyes to sleep (or tried to), he imagined a twenty-one year old Q with a look in his eye that bordered on haunted. Worse yet, when he tried to drown out the image with alcohol or when he went out with Ronson and Camille and her girlfriend and half the office to the bar to celebrate their new assignments, Bond still had that image of Q in the back of his mind the entire time, no matter how much he had to drink in order to forget.

So it was a relief when, after two days of waiting, Bond received a text from Alec with an address and a time. It was followed immediately by another message which read:

_and don’t be late_

Which is how Bond found himself at the Streatham Ice and Leisure Centre the next day, forty-five minutes before his intended meeting time.

A person behind the desk allowed him entry with a visitor pass when they saw his press badge, then gave him directions when he told them who he was meeting. Despite following these instructions, Bond became lost when he encountered a corridor closed for maintenance. There were no clear detour instructions and no one to ask except for a group of seven year olds that passed him on their way to a skating lesson.

Not wanting to look like an idiot, Bond began aimlessly walking about. He didn’t venture anywhere near the rink or seating areas, but poked his head into random doors that he came across. He found the pool, two exercise rooms, a gym, and a few admin offices, but no door with Madeleine Swann’s name on it.

He was just about to give it up as a bad job and go back to the front desk, when he turned and ran directly into someone.

Someone who just happened to be Quentin Sterling.

He wore casual gym clothing: trainers, a black track jacket, and a pair of skintight yoga pants that did things to his legs that definitely gave Bond some inappropriate thoughts. It was also the first time that Bond had seen him in glasses. Their previous interactions and the videos on the internet never had Q wearing them, but the dark frames did little to detract from Q's attractiveness, actually accentuating his cheekbones and framing his face to look much more mature than he did while on the ice.

"We've got to stop meeting like this," Bond said.

It took Q a moment to place him--his eyes going from Bond’s face to his press badge and then back again--but when he did, Q’s entire demeanour changed from apologetic to defensive. But the words that came out of Q’s mouth were not what Bond expected:

“Are you following me?”

“Why...would I be following you?” Bond asked.

“You’re the press, isn’t that what you lot do?”

Q crossed his arms over his chest, looking somewhere between wanting to fight and wanting to flee, but unsure of which would be the better option. Bond held up his hands in a non-threatening gesture.

“I’m not following you,” Bond said, and when Q did not look convinced, he added, “Alec called me over. I’m supposed to meet with Madeleine Swann at 3.”

Some of the tension left Q’s body, less flight and more fight, as he asked:

“So what are you doing skulking around up here.”

“I’m not skulking.”

Q’s eyebrow went up, and even hostile and unamused, his eyes were alight with fire, and Bond found him absolutely lovely.

“Press isn’t allowed to be up here. This is a private floor.”

“I got lost.”

“A likely story. Should I show you the exit?”

“Want me gone already?” Bond asked, trying for charming.

Q deadpanned. 

“Yes.”

Bond winced at Q's cool tone.

“Hostile.”

“For good reason,” Q reminded him.

Bond knew he was right, so he tried a different route.

“Maybe I came to apologise?”

Q did something with his mouth that made his lips look kissable instead of intimidating. 

“No, you came for an article. I’m not an idiot.”

Bond thought about retorting, but Q held up a hand before the words could come.

“I really don’t care about anything you have to say,” Q told him, “but I’ll bring you to Madeleine, because maybe she will.”

With that, he turned and began to walk away. It was then that Bond noticed he wore a brace on his right knee, something that gave him a bit of an awkward limp with each step.

“I don’t have all day,” Q said, over his shoulder, and it prompted Bond to follow him obediently. 

In trying not to stare at Q's very nice arse, Bond focused his eyes elsewhere.

“What happened to your leg?” Bond asked.

“That’s none of your business.”

“You didn’t get hurt at the exhibition. I saw your programme. You skated beautifully.”

The back of Q’s neck went red at the compliment, as did the tips of his ears, and Bond thought it had to be one of the most endearing things he’d ever seen. Especially because Q was trying so desperately hard not to like him.

“You’re cute,” Bond said, and the sliver of skin between Q’s nape and collar went redder. “I like you.”

“Well, I don’t like you!”

“Would you give me a second chance if I apologised?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Bond asked.

They made it to the bottom floor, and Q took off to the right, hobbling along on his bad knee with Bond trailing behind him.

“Because you just want your story. You’ll say anything, won’t you? That’s what journalists do.”

“You’re right,” Bond replied, “but I actually did want to apologise.”

Q stopped and turned round to face Bond, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Look, I was an arse,” Bond began, and Q interrupted him.

“How much of an arse?”

_Cheeky shit_ Bond thought, biting the inside of his lip to keep from smiling.

“A complete arse.”

Q nodded, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth at the admission.

“Go on.”

“I was a complete arse,” Bond began again, “all because I got frustrated that I got shafted with this job at the last minute and lost all the work I’d done over the past ten years to some intern with a Master’s degree--”

“Somehow this is becoming less of an apology and more of an excuse…”

“What I mean to say is, despite what was going on with myself that day, I had no right to say what I did, and I am sorry for that. If anything, I realised my mistake after I saw you perform.”

The flush came back to Q, starting at the hollow of his throat and moving upward to his cheeks.

“You’re just saying all of this--”

“I’m not. I mean it,” Bond said, and then offered a smile. “I was wrong to say figure skating was nothing but _twirling about_. What you did was art.”

Q hurriedly turned around and began walking again.

“Stop trying to be charming,” Q said.

“You think I’m charming?” Bond asked, and the colour of Q’s ears confirmed it.

“No, you’re obnoxious.”

“You like it, though.”

“Don’t be daft.”

“You do. You like me.”

“I’d like to never see you again.”

“Wow, James, what did you do now?”

It was Alec, leaning against a closed office door with Madeleine Swann’s name on it.

“I was trying to be charming,” Bond answered.

“Aren’t you always charming?” Alec asked.

"That's what I was saying."

Q audibly groaned as Alec and Bond shared a grin.

“Since you are both the best of friends, please take him,” Q said, and, without waiting for Alec’s reply, kept walking.

“Where’re you going Q?” Alec asked.

“Somewhere far away from you two,” Q answered, as he disappeared round the corner.

“Wow, what’d you say?” Alec asked.

“That he was cute and I liked him,” Bond said.

Alec laughed.

“No wonder.”

“What?”

“He probably thinks you’re teasing him,” Alec said.

“Well, I admit I might have just said it to see him blush,” Bond answered.

“Play nice with him. I don’t want you breaking his heart,” Alec said, and his tone was less teasing and more serious than Bond expected.

Before Bond could answer, a woman appeared at the opposite end of the hall and came walking towards them with an air of no-nonsense. She was about the same height as Q and had the same sort of delicate bone structure, but where Q had colour, she had none. Her skin, hair, and eyes were all pale white, blonde, grey, with only a bit of peach highlighting her cheek and lips. Bond would have been an idiot to not think her beautiful, but there was something about the way she held herself that told Bond she broke men's hearts on a daily basis and liked it.

She stopped in front of Bond and Alec, where she looked Bond up and down. She looked unimpressed, and perhaps even a bit disappointed. Bond wasn’t sure how, but her tiny stature actually made _him_ feel small.

“James Bond, I assume,” she said, not asked.

“Yes,” Bond answered, and held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Swann.”

She looked at his hand, but didn’t take it, instead pulling a key from her trackbottom pocket to open the door of her office.

“You’re the one who doesn’t think figure skating is a real sport,” she said, and Bond winced.

“I was mistaken,” Bond said, glancing at Alec for help. “I--”

“You’ll find, Mr. Bond, that our skaters are as well trained as any other athletes,” Madeleine continued, as she went into her office and sat down at the desk.

She didn’t invite them in, turning round to tend to an electric kettle at her desk. Bond awkwardly hovered in the doorway, but Alec just went right in and made himself at home in one of the guest chairs. He was about to put his foot up on Madeleine’s desk but she, without even turning around, said icily:

“Put your foot on my desk and I’ll cut it off.”

Alec quickly diverted his foot to the ground, giving Bond an _I told you so_ look. Ball buster, that was certain.

“Are you going to stand there all day or are you going to take a seat, Mr. Bond?” Madeleine asked.

Bond hurried to take the remaining seat, feeling all at once like he was about to be reprimanded by the headmistress. But instead, Madeleine poured them all a cup of tea and acted perfectly civil. Her hands were pale white, her fingers long and graceful. On her left ring finger, she wore a silver wedding band. Whoever the man (or woman) was in her life, they were a brave soul. 

“Now, Alec tells me you’re interested in Eve Moneypenny,” she said, drawing Bond’s attention back to her.

“Yes,” Bond answered, pulling out his notepad and a pen.

“And what’s your angle?”

“Angle?” Bond repeated, looking between her and Alec. “I...don’t have an angle?”

“Of course you do. Journalists always have an angle,” Madeline replied. "If you don't, you're an idiot."

Bond did, but he wasn’t about to reveal his true intentions. Besides, Alec had been right. Even if everything didn’t go as planned to interview Q, he’d at least have one article to hand over to Mallory before they threw him into AA.

“My only angle is to tell her story,” Bond answered. “When doing my research, I noticed that she’s only given a few interviews in the past, so she’s had very little publicity.”

“Yes,” Madeleine replied, “and?”

“I’d like to change that. She’s a remarkable skater and could serve as inspiration to other young girls, especially non-white minorities in the UK,” Bond replied.

Something he said made Madeleine’s expression soften slightly.

“Are you aware that, despite all the mandates and rules put in place by the ISU, figure skating competitions have been rife with racism for years?” Madeleine asked.

“Yes, though while doing research, I saw that there’s not been a lot of coverage on the issue,” Bond answered.

“They keep it all hush-hush usually. Same with the rampant homophobia,” Madeline said, leaning back in her seat. “They want to keep it all the same: all the same colour, build, height, and sexual orientation. It’s a hostile environment for those who do meet those requirements, but even worse for those who don’t fit the mould.”

Madeleine then nodded her head, as if she’d come to a decision.

“You seem like you’re coming from a decent place, and Bill vouched for you, so I’ll allow the interview so long as Eve agrees to it,” she said.

“Thank you,” Bond answered.

“I’ve already asked her to come in today, so let’s go meet her in the studio.”

She and Alec lead Bond upstairs and into a room that looked like a ballet studio: the floors were glossy wood and the far walls were mirrored, cut in half by a balance bar. There were no students present, save for a lithe male dancer who was stretching on the far wall. He held the bar for balance as he lifted his leg far higher than Bond imagined men could, and Bond couldn’t help but stare at his figure. That was when Bond noticed that he wore a brace on his right knee.

“I believe you’ve already met Q,” Madeleine said.

Q turned his head and met Bond’s eyes in the mirror.

“Unfortunately so,” Q said, as he brought his leg down and then lifted the other to stretch it in the same way, a literal vertical split. Bond was so impressed by the motion that he couldn’t find it in himself to be offended.

“Try to be polite,” Madeleine chided.

“I am polite. To people who deserve it,” Q answered indifferently.

  
Madeleine didn’t reprimand him.

“Have you seen Eve?” she asked.

“She texted. She’s on her way up now.”

As Q spoke, he turned on his foot, then reached back and pulled his upright leg higher over his head. Bond tilted his head to watch the motion, fixated until Alec nudged him in the ribs. He didn’t say anything, just sort of raised an eyebrow, and it was incredible how they hadn’t seen each other in so long, but Bond still knew what the expression meant. Some things never changed.

“You dog,” Alec said under his breath, once Madeleine was out of earshot, and Bond had to smother a grin.

They were saved from Madeleine’s inquisitive stare when the door to the studio opened. A tall, curvaceous silhouette appeared, dressed in grey and magenta workout gear.

“This is Eve Moneypenny,” Madeleine said. “Eve, this is James Bond. He writes for _Sport_.”

A glance at Eve Moneypenny gave you only a glimpse of her true beauty. Focused and up close, Eve was absolutely stunning, her beauty only enhanced by a physique that told Bond she could crush him with her little finger if she found him offensive. When she shook Bond’s hand, she had a grip that felt like a challenge, and he wasn’t quite sure why until she said:

“You’re the guy that doesn’t like figure skating.”

“Eve, we’ve already read him the riot act,” Alec said.

“But I didn’t get the chance yet. So it was you, right? You’re the one who got Q all flustered last weekend? Saying figure skating wasn’t a real sport?”

“I didn’t get _flustered_ \--!” Q shouted from the far wall.

“Yeah you did, came in all in a strop and everything,” Eve said back to him.

“Him, stroppy? _No_ ,” Bond said, and it looked like Eve was fighting a grin at his sarcasm.

“Remind me again why I’m supposed to like you?” Q asked Bond.

“Charming?” Bond offered.

“Not even slightly,” Q countered.

Eve cleared her throat.

“So what do you want, Mr. Bond?”

She looked expectant, as did Madeleine, and Bond knew that this was his opportunity to set the record straight.

“I wanted to apologise,” Bond began, “I made an assumption about a sport I knew nothing about. It was wrong to say what I said, but, I did say it.”

Bond met Q’s eyes in the mirror and held his gaze.

“I think people make assumptions because they don’t understand, so I’d like to help them do that. Let me write about what it’s like to be a figure skater. And, if you’d let me, I’d like to start with you, Miss Moneypenny.”

Alec, he had won over completely, Bond could tell. Eve and Madeleine seemed lukewarm at best. Q, though. Q was an enigma. Bond couldn’t tell if he approved or would like to see him thrown out in traffic. Still, not the worst odds he’d ever faced.

But then, Eve surprised him:

“Okay,” she said, “you can shadow me for one week.”

“But, Mr. Bond,” Madeleine warned, “if you get in the way, you’re gone.”

Bond nodded in understanding.

“Six a.m. tomorrow,” Madeline told him, and then, with a threatening undertone:

“Don’t be late.”

**Author's Note:**

> Q's performance inspired by Yuzuru Hanyu's [free programme at the Grand Prix Final 2016](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1_9lEId2xW4)


End file.
